


Libertatem

by Mottled_System



Category: Original Work
Genre: Acephobia, Aromantic, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Betrayal, Destiny, Enemies to Lovers, Experiments, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Fantasy, Fate, Found Family, Het, Internalized Acephobia, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, Lesbian Pirates, Lost At Birth, Magic, No Lesbians Die, Nobility, POV Lesbian Character, Pirates, Politics, Poverty, Prophecy, Queer Character, Queer Families, Queer Het, Queerplatonic Relationships, Revolution, Romance, Science Fiction, Soldiers, Steampunk, Twins, War, chosen family, queer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottled_System/pseuds/Mottled_System
Summary: A lost duchess. A loveless fiance. A heartsick soldier. A downtrodden revolutionary. A persecuted pirate.Vultures, vagrants, wolves, crows, hope, fear.Scattered pieces of a revolution.This is the tale of those who changed the world for the better, a weaving together of their separate stories.
Relationships: Aelia/Cal, Caius/Carina, Dove/Deirdre, Duilius/Katerina, Scholastica/Anya, Tatiana/Tessa, V/Wolf





	1. Vultures

The wind blew so hard that the heavy rainfall blew sideways, pelting me with cold, sharp rain. Clinging to my half-damp sweater beneath my coat that could only work so well, I tried in vain to see through the rain and the darkness and my ever-blinking eyes.

I could only imagine how Attilio felt.

I made my way toward the rock at which we were meant to meet, eyes consuming every ounce of my surroundings that they could. Sure enough, moments later, he hurried out from behind a tree. Carefully, I passed what food I had been able to sneak out of the abbey to him.

“I’m sorry,” I said as quietly as I could without my voice being lost to the rain.

“Don’t be,” he said, quickly hiding the food from the weather around us. “Get back inside, get warm and dry.”

“We’ll go back,” I said, voice breaking.

“No-”

“We will. Val agrees that we should.”

Attilio made a face, but we couldn’t stay out here for long. Soon, the dirt would be knee-deep mud. “We’ll talk later.”

“Sure. Go- and be safe.”

“I will,” he said. “I grew up in weather like this. I’ll be fine. Go, now.”

I turned and hurried away, walking as quickly as I could without slipping in the mud. Val was waiting beside a window, more than sheltered by the covered porch, smoking, even though it was against the rules.

“How was prince charming?”

“Put that out,” I hissed, trying to shake the rain and the mud off of me. Rolling her eyes, she took one last, long draw and flicked it out into the mud, where it would surely be quickly lost. I shuddered, my face feeling strange without the sensation of the rain. “It’s ungodly out there,”

“I can see.”

I kicked off my boots and removed my jacket as I approached the door, and Val followed me, removing her own jacket. I opened the door and we set our shoes beside it, hung our jackets on the hook to be cleaned, as they always were after a trek outside of the abbey.

“Verena,” said the abbess, her voice familiar and foreboding. “Valeriana. How nice of you to join us again.”

We looked over at her to see three other people standing beside her- outsiders. Fancy ones, too. I studied them, one at a time.

The first one looked strikingly similar to me, though a bit older. Her hair and skin were lighter than mine, her face rounder, nose straighter. Her blonde hair was in an intricate updo with carefully chosen tendrils floating down. Her makeup was subtle and complimented her porcelain skill and dove grey eyes. She wore a pale peach dress, large and round and expensive- she must be nobility. She eyed me with a strange expression, though the rest of her face was awash with a cordial, impassive disinterest. Lazily, she fanned herself as if it weren’t depressingly cold in the abbey.

Beside her, a girl that must be her daughter, close to my age. She looked much like her mother, but only in the ways that I didn’t- her hair was pale, her skin devoid of any color or tint, her eyes nearly white, her face round and nose sharp and upturned. She had a kinder expression than her mother, smiling absent-mindedly, gazing around with a curious look in her eyes. Her hair was less intricate but certainly not simple; her dress, while large and glamorous, was less meretricious, a pale blue.

And, finally, a boy who resembled the daughter. He could not be older than fourteen or fifteen, and sat in a wheelchair, his fine clothing crumpled around his thin frame, as if they had simply given him his father’s clothing and had not cared to tailor it. His face was uneven and deformed, but he was present in his eyes. My eyes did not linger on nor overlook him.

I turned back to the abbess, an old and upright woman, not cruel and not kind. “Apologies, Mother. I had gone out for a walk, not realizing the weather would be so bad. I ran into Val on the way in,” I turned a cold look towards my companion, not one to snitch. Val gave the Mother a lazily charming smile.

“I went out for air. I didn’t leave the cover of the abbey, Mother.”

“Mmm.” The abbess did not seem reassured nor disappointed. “This is- what was it, ma’am?”

The mother straightened as if slighted, but nobility was not regarded kindly here in Corva, where the citizens were as poor as dirt and the holy places saw them as corrupt and crooked. “I am the High Duchess Verena Renata Lenora Prudentia,” she said. I blinked at her name. “This is my daughter, the Young Duchess Aelia Lenore Renata Therasia, and my son, Duke Augustus Caius Aurelius Cato.”

Val had one brow quirked, the other dipped low, and a smirk was hidden in her eyes. I could imagine her words- if she were only a hair more audacious- a hair stupider- she would say  _ what- are you expecting us to bow, Your Majesty? _

I was grateful that she did not. I dipped down briefly. “Your- ah- Grace?”

The older duchess smiled and nodded, but neither Val nor the abbess made a move to copy me.

“Their carriage could not make it much farther- their poor horses are being tended to now. They’ll have to stay here through the storm.” The abbess said. “Please, show them to the room beside yours, and if you could, move a spare cot into the room for the boy. I won’t leave a man unattended here, lame or not.”

The duke’s face turned sour as she said the word; his sister winced and deflated; his mother grew ever more tense, ever more defensive, ever more proud. “Yes, Mother.” I said, and Val gave a curt nod, face still set in clear, amused defiance, a smirk still threatening to crack itself onto her face like an egg.

“Your Grace- Graces,” I said unsurely, walking forward and leading them.

“What are your names?” the daughter asked as we moved farther away from the abbess, from the entryway.

“Strangely enough,” I said. “My name is Verena. I go by ‘V’, though- Verena was always fancier than I am.”

“Mmm,” cooed the mother.

When Val didn’t introduce herself, I spoke again. “This is Valeriana, but she goes by Val.”

“A pleasure to meet you both,” offered the daughter.

“Thank you, Your Grace. The pleasure is ours.”

“You two-” said the son, his voice clear. “You aren’t nuns, are you? You’re dressed in commoner’s clothes.”

“No,” I said. “We, ah. We’re vagrants, just stopping by.”

“Vagrants? What would a monastery want with vagrants?” The boy spat the word with disdain. I glanced over at him, but he was not curling his lip at us- he looked genuinely perplexed. Indignant regardless, I glanced over at Val to see her with a mirthless smile on her face, her eyes gone lethal.

“This is an abbey, Your Grace. We volunteer here, mostly doing labor the nuns aren’t capable of, in exchange for food and bed for a while- as long as they need it.” I said. “And, of course. They’d let us stay- there are always vagrants and vagabonds coming in and out of holy places- but, you know.” I interrupted myself, fully aware that I was blabbering.

“Go on,” the daughter said, as if she could sense my withdrawal. “Please.”

“You know. We have no aspirations to be nuns, to be here. We’re always trying to find employment, to grow.”

“That is admirable,” said the mother as we arrived at their room. We all stopped in the hallway, and Val and I turned to face them. “Most vagrants, vagabonds-” her eyes glimmered. “I’m sure you of all people know. They’re… Dregs of society.”

Val leaned back slightly, both brows raising, eyes growing harsh. The High Duchess’ eyes ran over Val, looking almost- sinisterly amused. Her lips pursed slightly, then broke into a polite smile. “I truly wish the best to both of you.”

“Perhaps,” the daughter spoke up, voice small and tentative. “We could help. We, ah… We have… Positions…”

“We don’t offer them to vagrants off the street-” scoffed the boy.

“Caius,” said the mother, her voice sickly sweet. She turned to smile at us, her eyes still sharp, exuding that same faux-kindness. “I would, of course, never be opposed to helping those who truly are looking to improve their situation. One cannot help the circumstances of their birth, of course-” her voice twisted, eyes glimmered, as she said that. “I doubt I have any positions for women of your-” she froze for a moment before giving an apologetic, knowing smile. “But, I have many connections. I’ll be sure to look into something for the two of you,”

“We have a friend,” I said, feeling inwardly disparaged, but not willing to pass up an opportunity like that. “A man. I grew up with him-”

“The three of you,” said the mother.

“Thank you, Your Grace. It would be- more than appreciated.”

“Perhaps we should move the cot now,” said Val in a cool voice. “Let them rest.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you both kindly,” said the mother. And, with that, Val and I hurried into the next room to heave the cot into the other room. Once everything was situated, the three of them walked into their room together. It was cold and dark, the walls and floor and ceiling made of stone, the oil lamp pitiful at best.

“If you are hungry, I can- um-” I started.

“No, dear, thank you.” said the mother. “In the morning, though, it would be lovely if you could fetch us something to eat.”

I blinked. “Ah- of course, Your Grace.”

“Thank you. That would be all for tonight, then.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” I bowed once more, Val as staunchly upright as ever, before standing and grabbing her wrist, all but yanking her out of the room. As soon as I finished closing the door, her eyes grew dark, her face angry, her stance awkward and tired once more.

“Fucking vultures,” she hissed. “And the sheer arrogance of that- disgusting little invalid,” She scowled at the door with a righteous disgust, and I sighed heavily, dragging her further from the room.

“Just ‘cause he’s an asshole doesn’t mean you can talk about him like that-”

“I’ll talk about that cretin however I please-”

“He’s not an ‘invalid’, Val, he’s a human-”

“He’s a  _ vulture _ , V,” Val hissed, stopping. “They’re not human. Not in any way that matters.”

I looked over at her with tired eyes. “Of course they’re  _ human _ , Val. Saying that’s in their nature- that’s just excusing it, taking it as a given. What makes what they do so- monstrous- is that it’s a choice. They  _ choose _ to fuck over everyone else and do what they please. And to- to say that they’re not human, to take away their humanity, it doesn’t hurt them. It only serves to fuck over people- people like us- that are crippled, deformed. They’re the ones that will hear you, not some uppity noble with a stick up his ass.”

Val stood there, rolling her eyes, taut and tired and angry and tense. She didn’t want to listen, refused to be in the wrong, especially in the face of a noble. “Mm.”

“Whatever,” I said, feeling drained. “Let’s just- get to bed. Apparently, I’ll be playing maid for the next few days.”

“Fucking  _ vultures _ ,” Val muttered again as we walked into our own bedroom. She plopped onto her cot, and I lowered myself onto mine, groaning as my overworked muscles adjusted to the uncomfortable bed.

“Night, Val.”

“Night, V.”

She extinguished the oil lamp and darkness flooded the small, cold, stone room. I was left staring up into the darkness, waiting silently as the nooks and crannies of the ceiling were visible once more to my slowly adjusting eyes. I was lost in wordless thought, about the nobles and their faces and their names and their dispositions.

I’d never met a noble before, but I had seen several from afar. Growing up on the streets of Corva- the heart of the city, where rats and spit and chew and shit ran down the road like leaves did here on the outskirts- I had, a fair few times, seen the nobles in their fenced-off communities as they hurried from their gilded carriages towards their large, beautiful, colorful homes that contrasted so unnervingly against our small, grey communities. Their dresses were frilly and frivolous, their suits garish and gay, walking down cobblestone paths littered with fallen autumn leaves as my torn and tattered shoes held old socks that were damp with horse piss, as my mish-mash dress made from the old remnants of others’ was grey and frayed and strange against me.

I had learned from a young age that they viewed me as  _ the other _ \- and I had learned from a young age that I was. I had once climbed atop taxi carriages and rusted mailboxes to gaze over the high fences at their charming, colorful doors and their hand-sewn, intricate dresses and their quaint, polite exchanges, wondering how they could have possibly attained such comfort in a world plagued by the disparity that had surrounded me since well before I could remember. I’d caught sight of a little boy, his dark hair curly, his suit several beautiful shades of purple- lavender and plum and lilac and indigo. He curtseyed to a little girl with golden hair and an emerald dress, who giggled and flushed. Adults who looked like them stepped out of a carriage and made niceties, and I had imagined what they would be saying- though I could no longer remember what I had imagined them to say. And then, the little blonde girl’s small, blonde mother had, for some reason, glanced over at me and gone pale; her husband had glanced over at me as she had placed a hand on her daughter’s frail, ladylike shoulder. He had stiffened and frowned and whispered something at me. The boy and his parents had looked over; the boy had laughed, and his father had visibly, almost comically, groaned, eyes rolling, and his wife curled her lip and muttered something with plump, overdrawn lips. They had all looked like they’d seen a cockroach watching them from the corner.

I had largely stopped watching the nobles after that.

I knew now that they had not ‘attained’ anything- they had been gifted it, claiming it was their ‘birthright’, that our differences were innate and not a product of the exploitation their family businesses survived off of. They pretended that this was the way of the world so that they did not have to look at their own faces in the mirror and be confronted with the truth; they saw, they believed, and they revered the veneer that had been painted upon the glass by their fathers and forefathers, the veneer they renewed for their children and grandchildren to shelter them from the truth.

They were not monsters. They were cowards.

… Mostly.

Occasionally, of course, a man born in the dirtiest ghetto, or in the comfortable suburbs surrounding the cities, or in the hardened and hardy villages of the countryside, would find himself in the gated communities the nobles lived in. Those men were monsters; they knew what they were doing; they forged new exploitation and painted their own veneers to shield their eyes from the reflections they had created.

And, even more rarely, there was a man- or, surprisingly, a woman- who was swept into that world, favored by the nobles and the monsters, for one reason or another. Whether it be talent, or luck, or love, or cruelty, or kindness, few people living in luxury could look in the mirror and truly see- shielding their eyes from the reflections of others, of course, lest they lose their own place looking into the mirror.

It amazed me that Val could not see through their trickery, could not shake off the concept that vultures and vagrants- that nobles and the other- were inherently different, or that by doing so she was simply adhering to the worldview that kept us in shit-covered streets while they strolled through their cozy retreats. Val was generally, at least in my opinion, a very sharp and world-weary woman.

And, of course, to have made it so far in this world, in her shoes, she had to be.

She had been born in Columba, Caussa almost decades ago, swept away from her cozy life in a little, seaside village as a young girl and brought to Panthera, Potestas on an entirely different, entirely strange continent. She had been sold as a slave, her body hardened by labor, her heart hardened by men. She had escaped and evaded capture, slowly but surely making her way back to Spes. It had been her fortieth birthday when she had set foot in her tiny little village again, and by then, her family had been gone. She’d remained there for a year before eventually setting off to find a purpose, a home, before finding herself in Corva, Solvatem.

And then, she had met Attilio and me.

Me.

I had been raised by the streets of Corva. Initially, I’d been in an orphanage, my mother having left me there at night with no clue of her or of me or of my father, save for a small, golden locket with  _ Verena _ engraved upon it, one of the most common names in all of Solvatem. For a long time, I had searched for meaning with it- it certainly was strange to abandon a child when you had the means to buy a golden locket- but eventually, I had come to terms with my solitude. Perhaps she had been born noble and been outcast. Perhaps she was the daughter of a monster, or a favorite. Perhaps she had stolen it. Why she had left it with her abandoned child, I had come to peace with never knowing- perhaps she loved me, perhaps she was dying, perhaps she didn’t know it was gold.

I ran away from the orphanage as a child, and I’d sold it to keep myself clothed and fed and warm. I had never been one of the most desperate vagrants in Corva, but I had never felt much hope of transcending from this lifestyle, either. I was content- relatively- to live and die as just another poor soul on the streets. I never turned to crime, never found God and refuge in a holy place, never did much of anything but survive.

I’d met Attilio in the orphanage- he hadn’t been in it, of course, as boys and girls were housed entirely separately. Instead, he had often worked for the baker who delivered fresh bread twice weekly, one of the only highlights of living in the orphanage. He’d been the son of a Native woman who had been bought by a Corvan noble; he and his mother had been cast out long before his birth, and she had died when he was young. He didn’t know if his father had been a Native, if he had been conceived before his mother had been bought, if he had been the son of the noble. He didn’t look mixed, he looked Native, but that didn’t mean much.

Once, as he had revealed to me in recent years, he had had a crush on me, which was now a foreign and strange thought to both of us; now, we were more like siblings than anything else. We had played in the streets as the baker and the workers carried all of the allocated and donated bread into the orphanage, one of the rare moments we were allowed out. For brief moments, I felt like the little blonde girl giggling at the purple-clad boy.

I had gone to the bakery after I had fled. It was one of the places I still went to for food in exchange for labor. Attilio and I had formed an unspoken alliance, and whenever we left to find work, we took the other with us. Everyone in Corva, on the streets, in suburbs and villages and mansions and estates- we would all wither and die without companionship, love.

No one and no thing has ever meant more to me than Attilio. No golden locket, nor any meal, nor any shower nor bath nor shelter nor night. Except for, perhaps, Val.

We had met Val one night while we slept tucked inside an alleyway, hidden from view in case a soldier or business owner made his way here. She kept to the shadows and held herself like a vagrant- like the rest of us- though her dark, darting eyes and defensive, aimless wandering suggested she was not a local. Attilio had met eyes; we both wanted to help, and I intended to, and he intended to stop me. However, I had darted out of our empty dumpster before he could catch me, startling Val, who had brandished her small, rusty blade.

“Do you speak Spesian?” I had whispered once in Spesian, once in Prosperitan.

“Yes,” she had hissed back in Spesian, frowning.

“You can’t just walk around out here. You’re going to get us all caught.”

Her eyes had darted around the alley. Only a reluctant Attilio had popped into view, raising his head ever slightly, to prove that it was not just Val and me in the alley.

“You’ll have to find somewhere unoccupied if you want to sleep here- or, you can leave. But you can’t just walk around here.”

She had eventually slipped silently into some nook or another, and I had returned to the dumpster with Attilio. For a year, we only saw her in passing, occasionally in the alley and occasionally at a miscellaneous job, until eventually, we had forged a somewhat reluctant bond. She began to travel with Attilio and me more and more often- and then, we all moved together, never parting.

Until now. The abbey that stood at the border of the city of Corva had been putting out more and more desperate pleas for hiring, offering more and more money in return, avoided by the vagrants largely because of the increase of wolves- especially feral, aggressive wolves- around the border. Val had convinced me and Attilio to go there for the money; me, within the abbey with her, and Attilio braving the elements and the wolves as he waited for our return.

Attilio had grown up, at least for the first few years, largely on the border. He was used to the outrageous storms and the ferocious fauna and the poisonous flora. He had convinced me he would be safe, and at least so far, he was right.

I yawned into the air for perhaps the sixth or seventh time since the light had gone out, wondering why I was still awake, why I was reflecting so much on my life, my companions. I rolled over and closed my eyes, trying to relax into the cot.

Eventually, perhaps begrudgingly, sleep welcomed me.


	2. Lineage

He stood in the darkness of the empty and cold smithy. He always felt oddly unnerved by this place when he wasn’t forging a blade, when it wasn’t illuminated with fire and passion and heat. It was like seeing his own soul extinguished.

It was like looking at Crow.

That thought made him frown, made him clear his throat and get to work, forging a new pair of daggers for Crow. It had never occurred to him how often they would all lose their weapons- he had been so frustrated, felt so grim, after they had all lost the first set he’d made them, what with all the care he had put into them. For a while, he had stopped personalizing them at all… But he liked to craft them around the men’s personalities. He liked to carefully forge pieces of their souls into their weapons.

Losing them only meant leaving their mark. Now, he liked to imagine some little kid finding one of his own daggers, with a fiery, ferocious wolf carved intricately into the blade, and keep and revere it, make it their own. It would be like sharing a piece of his own soul with someone he would never meet, someone who would grow and forge their own destiny and leave their own soul in others, and then they on more. It was the lineage of life to leave one’s mark on the world, and for that to evolve and be passed on.

It would likely be the only lineage he would ever participate in, after all.

He spent the day, and worked well into the night, before he had finished the first dagger. Born of damascus steel and shimmering black and coal with brilliant silver marbling, it was a beautiful and intimidating blade. The handle was blackened zirconium with several crows decorating it, a few gnarled feathers. He set the blade to the side and headed out of the small smithy, shuddering at the chilly air that enveloped him. The others- save for Lion- were all sitting in the dining room inside the house, beside the window.

“Wolf!” Whelp said as Wolf walked into the back door. “Thought you was gonna work yourself to death.”

“Mmm,” Wolf said in response, kicking off his boots and sitting in his seat at the table.

“You up for a game of cards?” Dove asked in his characteristically gentle voice.

“Usually am,” Wolf said. His eyes met Crow’s, who was as calm and as cool as ever, his eyes glimmering as they so often did.

“How are my blades coming along, brother?” Crow asked in his dark, heavy voice.

“One of them is done,” Wolf said in response.

“Good, good.”

“I’ll have the other done soon.”

“We have a mission soon,” said Crow.

“It will be done before then,” Wolf assured.

“Good, good.” Crow began to shuffle the deck in his hands, his dark eyes barely visible beneath his dark lids and his dark, voluminous lashes.

They played nonicker until the earliest hours of the morning, each winning about as much as anyone else. With all the years they’d been together, they’d grown skilled at the game and familiar with each other's methods- except for Crow’s, who changed his depending on his hand, his mood. His mind was too fast, his walls too thick. He won a little bit more than anyone else.

“We’ve got to get to bed,” said Dove for the upteenth time.

“We really do,” said Whelp with a tilted grin, his eyes shimmering with sleep already. He’d drank too much.

“Wolf’s got to, at least,” said Crow. He turned to face Wolf with a small smile, light-hearted eyes. “I need my blades back.”

“Shouldn’t have lost them,” Wolf chastised quietly, a small smile on his own face, spurred on by the buzz granted by the several drinks he’d had. Crow made a low, playfully threatening noise, while Whelp cackled. Dove shook his head, ever unnerved by his companions’ banter, however gentle.

The others all showed their remaining hands and argued about what-ifs for a moment while Wolf stared unseeingly at his own, unimpressive hand. “Do you think,” Wolf said aloud after a moment, suddenly, tossing his own cards onto the table. “We were named for our souls, or we were shaped by our names?”

There was a silent pause.

“We were named for our souls,” said Crow, at the same time that Whelp said-

“We were shaped by our names.”

There was a pause. “I think,” said Dove gently. “It was a bit of both.”

Wolf frowned as he collected the cards, his turn to deal. He was somehow unsatisfied with all three answers, leaving him to wonder- to no avail- what answer would have pleased him.

“What a nonsense question,” the low, gravelly, age-worn voice of Lion remarked. Wolf turned to look at their mentor, their leader, as he walked towards the kettle on the stove. He was not  _ satisfied _ with the answer, but it did squelch the train of thought. He watched wordlessly as Lion took the kettle towards the spout to fill it. “Who wants tea?”

“I’ll take some, thank you.” said Dove. “Chamomile will help us sleep,” he added, as if urging the others further towards bed.

Wolf stood, glancing over at Whelp as he gathered up the cards and shuffled them. Crow and Lion began to talk, but Wolf did not pay attention, as Dove muttered something to Whelp and Whelp laughed heartily. He didn’t interrupt them to say goodnight, instead turning and heading towards the stairs, down to the concrete barracks with five cots and too much empty space. Wolf changed and lowered himself onto his cot, chastising himself mentally for not washing himself at the river before returning inside to play cards.

The thought of names returned to him, and souls, and the only four men he had ever known in any real way, as if there were someone dragging his thoughts towards them like a finger through cloudy water.

Wolf. He had not chosen the name; it had been assigned to him. Once- a very long time ago- he had been called Callistus, a name that was foreign and faint to him now. He had not chosen that. He had not chosen the sort of person he had become- not really. He could consciously affect it, of course- he could choose his actions- but the core of him, his soul, had been innate. He had a hard time understanding himself the way he understood the others.

Crow. He had once been called Corbinianus, long before Wolf had met him. Unlike Wolf, who had known a long and hard life before Evinco, Crow had largely only ever known Evinco. He had been born to a Columban slave and conceived by Lion himself- he had been put into Evinco as a tyke. Crow was best described as dark, both inside and out- unlike his pale father with light orange hair and pale green eyes, Crow had dark skin and black hair and black eyes like his mother. Crow was quiet and reserved, his humor dry and twisted and sometimes cruel. He was not, innately, cruel- just bitter and pessimistic.

Dove. He was fond of his old name- Candidus. He had been born in the Natives’ land and sold to Solvatem’s government, only to wind up in Evinco as a child. He had vague but fond memories of his people, despite the fact that they had  _ sold _ him, something that had always bothered Wolf. Still, he was loyal only to Evinco and Solvatem, to Lion and his country. He was loyal and kind and gentle and wise. Lion said he would be a benevolent general one day, and Wolf wholeheartedly agreed.

Whelp. He had once been called Catellus, and had been the last person to join Evinco. He’d been a pirate and had taken quickly to the procedures. He was loud and rambunctious, he liked women and wine and gambling, and he had a proclivity for men that no one had addressed aloud. Lion disapproved, and the others couldn’t care less- to protect their brother, all of them had lied. As far as Lion knew, Whelp’s proclivities had remained in thought and sight only.

Lion. Legally, he was Baron Calogerus Augustus, General of the Solvatem Armies. He was a rare first-generation noble, named for his breakthrough contributions to Solvatem’s armed forces. He had founded and funded Evinco’s experiments and procedures, hand-crafting a top secret special operatives team. There was nothing like Evinco, no one like its members.

It was a beautiful and frightfully lonely thing to be special and secret.

Wolf had been twelve when he had met Lion, and fourteen when he had officially been inducted into Evinco. He had been ordinary and plain and angry and alone. He was twenty-eight now, with four men he loved and fought ferociously for- and he was anything but ordinary. They all were.

Wolf was telekinetic, telepathic. At will, he could see the thoughts of those around him, could push himself into the minds of them and consume every last thing they had ever known. He could effortlessly throw things across the room and pull weapons towards him and force people to yield, fling them away from him. Lion was impossibly strong, strong enough to incapacitate foes with a single hit and crush metal as if it were foil and survive shotgun blasts as if he were struck with a child’s slap. Dove could see the remnants of the dead and the memories buried within objects, see the past and the people who had lived within it. Whelp could move faster than you could see him and bend in unnatural and ungodly ways, wedging himself into unbelievable places without care nor pain.

And Crow. Crow- was special.

They called it the Darkness. Of course, no one could truly explain any of their abilities, but Crow… They had struggled to name his ability. The limits and capabilities of it were still unknown, and seemingly depended on his mood and his belief in it. He could teleport in short bursts, summon a ‘darkness’- a pitch black, near sentient fog that was unaffected by light and entirely submissive to Crow’s will, something he could use to blind enemies and interact with objects and fly himself and other things across the room with.

They did not know the purpose of Evinco, save for Lion. They knew very little about their missions or their effects. Per the Supreme Sovereign himself, they were largely cut off from society. They lived in a small barracks surrounded by other soldiers beside the bustling side of the city of Corva, where in between missions they were permitted to wander around gamble, drink, and dally to their hearts’ content.

The others, save Lion, who presumably was now up for the day, joined Wolf not too long after sleep had begun to make his eyes too heavy to keep open. He listened to the men’s whispers, their voices but not their words, and found comfort in the sound.

He wondered what they thought of him. Surely, they considered him reserved like Crow, and gentle like Dove, and playful like Whelp, and focused like Lion, if nothing else. But, while he could consider himself to be several things in isolation, he could not put together an image of his soul the way he could the others.

Crow was a dark shade of coal, plum fog floating around and mingling with it, foreboding and yet beautiful. Dove was a pale silver and pure white, dotted with golden and blue specks. Whelp was red and blue and gold and purple, bright and bold and boyish and sweet. Lion was- army green and mustard, stern and serious.

Wolf was… Wolf. Brown. A bit of green, maybe gold? The words seemed to suit him and yet they didn’t represent anything in his mind the way the other men’s colors did.

He wondered if the kids who found their weapons could make sense of their souls, too. He wondered if they, perhaps, could color their souls the way that the memories buried in things colored Dove, despite the fact that the children could not see them. He wondered if they were affected regardless.

He fell asleep wondering about that, wondering if his things could affect him, too, and what that might look like and mean.

All in all, it was… Soothing.


	3. Butterflies

The stars twinkled in the sky above the estate, like millions of shimmering lights against their inky background. Carina lay on the chilled grass, lazing in the cool night air, while her little sister Ysi danced and giggled and caught fireflies in her hands and squealed as they tickled her palms. She was far too old for that now- at age nine, she would soon find herself in Etiquette training, and with her pretty face and gentle rearing, she would be betrothed in only a matter of years, married in much less than a decade. Her connection making would start soon, no doubt.

A bitter taste filled Carina’s mouth at the thought of it all-  _ betrothal _ . She was betrothed.

She had no taste for love, for child rearing, for sex. She had no softness for her fiance- which was precisely why his mother had chosen her. Their union would be strictly duty-based. They needed each other to protect their own secrets.

Caius was lame. Carina was- cold. They would bear a single son and never touch one another again. They would never speak nor share any loving words. He would secure his claim to his birthright, and Carina would secure her freedom, and they would leave each other to their own devices with the single, mutual right to discretion. Maybe they would love their son, and maybe they would not. Maybe he would be lame like his father or cold like his mother, and they would orchestrate another discreet marriage for him.

But they would be allowed to live, however they wanted, as long as they did so in a caricature of the word ‘together’.

She should be happy for the arrangement, grateful for the union. And yet, here she was, feeling bitter and dour.

“Sissy, look!” cried an overexcited Ysi, skipping over to her sister. “A butterfly!”

Carina gazed at the stunning beauty beating itself frantically against Ysi’s hands. “You’ll destroy her wings if you don’t-”

But it was too late. The damage had been done. The butterfly, fluttering uselessly, fell to the downward bow in Ysi’s little cage. As if startled, the girl dropped it, and Carina watched the poor thing fall into the grass beside her. “Oh, no!” Ysi cried, a genuine apology on her lips.

“Go, pet,” said Carina. “I’ll see to it.”

“Is she gonna be okay?”

Carina smiled kindly at her sister, a lie on her lips. “Of course. Run off now, and leave the butterflies alone.”

“Okay! Thank you!”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Ysi skipped off to return to the less fragile bugs that wandered around in the night sky as Carina gently scooped the poor butterfly into her hands. She gazed sorrowfully at it for a moment. “What on earth were you doing out at this hour, my friend?”

The butterfly twitched and fluttered its orange wings with black veins and white speckles. It was truly a sight to behold, even battered and damaged as it was. A feeling of visceral fear and panic pulsed in Carina’s own heart, as if she were trading places with the poor little thing.

“You will surely die, won’t you, pet?” Carina’s voice was nearly silent. “I wonder if you hurt. I wonder if your belly aches for food already.” She gazed at the butterfly for a moment longer before steadying her stomach and pinching her small head between her fingers. Then, she quickly dug a small hole in the dirt for the small beauty, burying her quickly before Ysi could notice her staring at the ground. Then, she smacked the dirt off her hands.

“Where is she?!” Ysi hollered, skipping over once more.

Carina looked all around her. “She’s just flown off! It’s far too dark to see.”

“Aw,” Ysi said, stopping and going limp.

“A pity.”

“I didn’t get to apologize for hurting her,” Ysi whined, sounding far younger than her age.

“It’s alright, Ysi,” Carina assured her. “I’m sure she understands.”

“Mademoiselle!” The maid called from the porch. “Miss! It is time for your baths!”

Carina sighed and got to her feet while Ysi danced around her, waiting. Carina walked slowly, properly, as she adjusted her skirts. Ysi continued to skip and dance, muttering on about butterflies and fireflies and how badly she would like to get jars to keep them in.

“You cannot keep them in such a small space, pet,” Carina said.

“Why not?”

“They would get sad and die.”

“Oh,” Ysi said, her eyes going wide. “Well, I don’t want them to die! But that’s awfully rude of them, don’t you think?”

Carina laughed gently. “No. I’d get sad and die, too, if someone kept me in a closet.”

“ _ I _ wouldn’t,” Ysi said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I always find a way to amuse myself.”

Carina gave a gentle  _ tsk _ . “But that would be awfully rude of whoever put you in the closet, don’t you think? There’s a whole world of life out here, and to keep you in a closet just so they could look at you?”

Ysi considered that for a moment. “Hm, I do suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Carina said light-heartedly as Ysi hurried up the steps and began to tell the maid all about her butterfly and the fireflies- and the  _ fairies _ she had reportedly seen. The maid listened and nodded and cooed as the three of them walked towards the children’s wing.

They parted ways, the maid attending to Ysi in her bath while Carina entered hers alone, lounging in the large porcelain tub and the hot, steaming water. Undoubtedly, Cal and Mother were bathing as well. If Father was home, he would be, too.

Carina lay her cheek against the edge of the tub, eyes closed against the blissful steam, and worried about her silly, beloved sister.

Carina had stopped believing in fairies when she was four. She had stopped skipping when she was six. She had been a certifiable lady since she was seven, at the latest.

She knew all too well how wretched it was to hide herself. She did not wish the same fate upon her sweet little Dionysia.

Eventually, once she had cleaned herself, she climbed out of the bath and dried herself. She had stopped asking for the assistance of her ladies in waiting long ago; she did not like to be touched and peered at and coddled. She dressed herself in her nightgown and entered her chambers, seeing her three ladies in waiting all ready for bed, themselves.

They were really more like three companions.

“Hello, ladies,” she said as she sauntered towards her bed.

“Hello, my Lady,” they said in unison. Carina tucked herself beneath her sheets as she chatted fondly with her friends, before eventually dismissing them.

Sleep found her easily, as it often did, and she drifted into a butterfly-filled dreamscape.


End file.
